Wandering Billy

Wandering Billy

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Rising from the Ashes

Forty years after devastation, Davie Street sweeps away the dust

By Billy Ingram

Feature photograph: Photo of buildings destroyed in the Davie Street fire captured by Keith Kolischack in 1976

 

“Anything you lose comes round in another form.” — Rumi

April 13, 1985. The call came into the Greensboro Fire Department around 10:53 p.m., reporting white smoke wisping from Dixie Belle Textile’s storage facility at 321 S. Davie St. Two minutes later, Engine 4’s crew, led by Captain Bob Bost, roared up on a scene where bellowing, black plumes were now pouring out of two adjacent 85-year-old wooden behemoths. Less than half an hour later, fueled by the mother of all backdrafts, overwhelmed firefighters were driven into defensive positions against a blaze so overwhelming orders were given that, should any storefront on South Elm catch fire, battalions were to fall back to the Carolina Theatre. There, they should hold the line, allowing everything to the east to burn unabated.

When morning broke, ashes still smoldering, Gate City residents peeled away rubber bands encircling the Sunday edition of the newspaper and were confronted with horrific headlines about a catastrophic event downtown. Excepting four storefronts and significant portions of Greensborough Court apartments, then under construction, Davie Street’s business district was obliterated. Two blocks of two- and three-story warehouses and commercial establishments dating back to 1900 on both sides of the boulevard — the primary focus of our city’s multimillion dollar urban renewal effort that was nearing completion — all went up in smoke due to a besotted squatter’s neglected cigarette.

Four decades after disaster, Davie Street is lit up again, ignited with entrepreneurial energy no less incandescent. A creative contagion is coalescing around literature, fine art, sassy stitch-ups, speeding steel balls and four-color fun.

Situated in the building next door to where that 1985 blaze broke out, our journey begins at Strange Ways Comics & More. Proprietor Ben (Never Grimm) Roberts’ pop-culture space-time continuum orbits outside the established parameters most associated with typical comic book shops. For one thing, he says, “We have a video store with VHS tapes and VCRs for sale. We can’t keep them in stock, but people are nostalgic for it.” For youngsters coming of age in the 2000s, he notes, “Everything was digital, so the new thing for them is physical media. They have a lot of respect for it.” The latest fad is owning books, CDs and DVDs? Ahead of the curve, we was!

College students, in particular these days, are gravitating toward graphic novels, which Roberts stocks a-plenty, but his racks are stacked with traditional comic books, natch. “Right now Absolute Batman is the highest selling. That’s brought in so many people who have never read comics before, so it’s been fun to show them other things.” Anything other than Marvel or DC is categorized by genre rather than by publisher. “So if you’re looking at Ed Brubaker, it’s next to other [indie] crime books.” Those irrational intersecting indecencies compounding the comical conundrums that comprise Brubaker’s twisted storylines serve as a mystifying deep dive into the world of adult graphic novels. Great stuff!

A gallery wall showcases local illustrators, while one entire room is ringed in retro pinball machines — “Labyrinth,” “Jurassic Park,” “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” “Metallica,” “High-Speed,” “Cactus Jack’s,” “Friday the 13th.” No admission to play, just quarters for the slots. Pinball tournaments flip out here on Fridays.

Bathed in Old World decor next door is Unfettered Books, newest edition — er, addition — on the block, launched last June by GTCC English professor Brian Barbour and wife Lisa Yeager, both reminiscent of those indie booksellers in Greensboro whose discernment nourished my insatiable need to read growing up. There’s a resolute lean here into sci-fi, horror, fantasy and the sexy romantasy sub-genre, where forbidden love (fiction’s favored flavor) flourishes amongst fornicating maidens, gregarious gods and discontented dragons.

Tucked into Unfettered’s cozy coffee lounge, where, apparently, “everyone loves the honey whip latte,” a fanciful selection of kiddie lit awaits little readers. Plus, Yeager points out, “an indigenous children’s section and indigenous nonfiction literature, poetry, new fiction and indigenous horror as well.” Various book clubs, including Unfettered’s own, commune over caffeinated beverages and conduct meetings here.

Kaleidoscopic hanks of handwoven yarn strung across one wall weave people together during Friday evening St*tch and B*tch sessions, an unravelling lasting well after the shop closes. “We usually keep chatting until 9 or 10,” says Yeager, “we have a good time.” Internationally acclaimed singer-songwriter Colin Cutler performed a Folk Fest pre-party in the cafe as did children’s entertainer Sam Hensley. Additional bookings forthcoming, I’m told.

Meticulously reimagined and refashioned in The Farmer’s Wife Antiques’ former longtime hearth emerges PROXY. The avant-art gallery, interspersed with curated collections of unconventional lifestyle accoutrement, is orchestrated by Michael Clapp, locally established architectural romanticist profiled in the March 2019 issue of O.Henry.

Clapp walked me through the concept. “PROXY sort of evolved into this space for housing creation of all types. We do a lot of programming, smaller gatherings. We’ve done film screenings, hosted music artists for First Fridays and have a salon discussion series,” he says. “It’s been really amazing to see the reception that we’ve had.” His wife, Méric Ozgen, is also an architect and artist. “She leads the curatorial aspect of the exhibitions.” Together, they’ve been imprinting their singular architectural style for clients through Schemata Studio, a design practice specializing in adaptive reuse that reflects a harmonious, almost futuristic rusticity.

Clapp’s striking monochromatic, metropolitan deconstructions are on display at PROXY’s current instillation entitled Burn, running through mid-November. Its amorphous motif is that electric esprit one experiences when fully enmeshed in the creative process. He’s inexorably drawn to Matthew Steele’s kinetic wooden compositions that “utilize micropins to construct these very geologic sculptural pieces.” Plus, Clapp is fascinated by the juxtaposition of realism and abstract in Ivan Toth Depeña’s paintings, “the main artist that we were familiar with and wanted to have in this show. You’ll see in a lot of his pieces, he actually includes these little artifacts from the places that he’s depicting.”

Punctuating the surroundings are islands Clapp refers to as “exhibition retail, a way to share some of these little-known companies and products.” Warmly austere B+P lighting fixtures, Danish hardware accents for furniture, eye-catching art books and sleek Swiss mechanical pencils caught my eye.

Circumscribing the block is Davie’s Goliath, largest of the properties, with no imminent expectation of renovation although possibilities abound. Something cinematic perhaps? Clapp, who serves on the board of the Arts Council of Greater Greensboro, envisions this scrappy, compact chorus coursing with creativity as “an extension of the creative corridor that we feel runs all the way up to the Cultural Arts Center.”

One upside of sacrificing those scorched storefronts on Davie back in 1985? A preponderance of parking spaces occupy the empty lots left in their wake.  OH

Billy Ingram has a YouTube channel with loads of local history & mysteries at: YouTube.com/billyingram.

Birdwatch

Birdwatch

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A Familiar Call

Northern bobwhite on the rebound

By Susan Campbell

For some of those fortunate enough to live in open piney woods or adjacent to large farm fields, the whistled call of the bobwhite quail may be a familiar sound. As with so many of our bird species, this once prolific songster has diminished across the Piedmont and Sandhills of North Carolina.

Bobwhites measure between 8 and 11 inches beak to tail and have very cryptic brown, black and white markings, which make them very difficult to see in the grassy habitats they call home. The male has a bright white eye stripe and throat and is the one who announces his territory through a repeated “bob-white” call. The female is not only smaller but is drabber with an eye stripe and throat that are a buffy color. This stout bird is well adapted to foraging at ground level for insects, berries and soft vegetation with its short sharp bill, strong legs and feet with sharp claws.

Bobwhite males attract a mate using their loud repetitive calls in the spring. The female will reply with a four-syllable whistle of its own. Following breeding, the pair create a domed nest concealed in tall grasses, and the hen lays up to 20 pure white eggs. There is a period of approximately 25 days of incubation before the young hatch.

Hens will renest if the eggs are eaten or destroyed. Upon hatching, the chicks will immediately follow their parents, learning how to hunt bugs and which shoots are the most nutritious. As a group they are referred to as a covey. They will stay together through the winter and may join with other families to form coveys of 30 or more birds. When alarmed at an early age, the young will scatter and freeze to avoid predators. Once they can fly, they will take to the air in a blur of wings if they are startled by a potential predator.

Quail were a very popular game bird throughout North Carolina until the 1980s, when a decline in their numbers made them much harder to find. A combination of factors is believed to be responsible. Not only have open woodlands and agricultural fields with hedgerows become scarcer, but ground predators such as foxes, coyotes, raccoons and free-roaming cats have increased. Also, the timing of rainfall can significantly affect breeding productivity. Too much rain too early may inundate nests and result in abandonment. Dry conditions just after chicks hatch may result in insufficient food.

Currently, quail season runs from late November through early April. Hunters may well find coveys in the forests and fields of state game lands. They also can be found on Fish and Wildlife Service refuge lands in the coastal plain. The vast acreage of longleaf pine on Fort Bragg supports quail as well. It requires a well-trained bird dog and a good deal of patience.

Active quail management in parts of the Piedmont and Sandhills over the past couple of decades has paid off with a gradual increase in the northern bobwhite population. Opening up forested habitat, using prescribed burning as well as replanting undesirable vegetation with quality cover plants are two of the best strategies to help boost the population. If the trend continues, before much longer the whistled call of the bobwhite will be more frequent.  OH

Susan Campbell would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photos. She can be contacted by email at susan@ncaves.com.

In Good Taste

In Good Taste

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A Toast to Savoring the Season

Skip the Black Friday shopping and soak up a slow morning with this spicy-sweet French toast

Story and Photograph by Jasmine Comer

Pumpkin spice can be a polarizing topic — but, then again, so is the great breakfast debate: pancakes, waffles or French toast? Most people have a preference. Me? I’ll take pancakes, and when it comes to pumpkin spice, I like a gentle whisper over a full-blown blast of fall flavor. So it may seem surprising that this recipe brings together two things I would normally pass over: pumpkin spice and French toast. But thick, buttery brioche soaked in a silky pumpkin custard changed my mind. Golden at the edges, soft and creamy in the center, and finished with, you’d never guess it, bright, tangy raspberries. This French toast strikes a delicious balance — warmly spiced, not overpowering, and worthy of a slow, post-Thanksgiving brunch.

One thing I discovered while perfecting this recipe is that there’s a fine line between custardy and soggy — and French toast can cross it quickly. The secret here is a two-step cooking method: first, just after soaking in custard, the brioche is browned in a skillet to create crisp, caramelized edges; then, it finishes in the oven for a few minutes so the center can gently set. The result is French toast with a luscious, melt-in-your-mouth texture that holds its own, even under a generous pour of maple syrup. Its flavor comes from a rich pumpkin butter made from scratch and seasoned with just the right amount of pumpkin pie spice — enough to taste like fall without overwhelming every bite.

If you are not really a French toast person, this recipe might change your mind. It definitely changed mine.  OH

Pumpkin Butter French Toast

Makes 6 thick slices

Ingredients

4 large eggs

3/4 cup whole milk

1/2 cup heavy cream

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 cup cooled, homemade pumpkin butter (recipe below)

6 thick slices brioche, about 1 1/2 inches thick

2 tablespoons unsalted butter, for cooking

Raspberries, optional

Directions

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

In a large bowl, whisk the eggs until completely smooth. Whisk in the milk, heavy cream, vanilla and salt. Add the pumpkin butter from the recipe below and whisk until the custard is smooth and evenly combined.

Pour the custard into a shallow baking dish. Add the brioche and soak for about 1 minute per side.

Melt butter in a large skillet over medium to low-medium heat heat. Add the soaked brioche and cook for 3 to 4 minutes per side, or until deeply golden with lightly caramelized edges.

Transfer the French toast to a baking sheet and bake for 7–10 minutes or until the centers are set but remain soft and custardy.

Serve warm with maple syrup and fresh raspberries.

Note: What you want to put on your French toast is another controversial subject. Definitely try the raspberries with maple syrup. If you’re one of those who can’t get enough pumpkin this time of year, adding some of the leftover pumpkin butter is worth a try. Or just dot it with raspberries and dust it lightly with confectionary sugar.

Pumpkin Butter

Ingredients

1 15-ounce can pumpkin purée

1/2 cup packed dark brown sugar

1/4 cup pure maple syrup

1/4 cup water, plus more as needed

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 teaspoons McCormick pumpkin pie spice

1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Directions

Combine the pumpkin purée, brown sugar, maple syrup, water, butter, pumpkin pie spice and salt in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Allow the butter to melt completely, stirring occasionally.

Reduce the heat to low-medium and cook for 20–25 minutes, stirring frequently, until the pumpkin butter is darkened, glossy and thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. If it becomes too thick, stir in additional water, 1 tablespoon at a time.

Remove from the heat and stir in the vanilla. Set aside to cool completely. Reserve 1/2 cup for the French toast custard. Refrigerate the remaining pumpkin butter in an airtight container and store up to two weeks.

O.Henry Ending

O.Henry Ending

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Faux Money, Mo’ Problems

A case of innocent mistakes

By David Bailey

Illustration by Harry Blair

“Don’t get arrested,” I would teasingly tell my daughters as I handed them the keys to the family car. And now here I was, 25 years later, imagining whether I might use my only call to my wife, Anne, or to my lawyer.

It was in the sixth grade that I began worrying about one day being thrown in jail. That’s when our class was taken to Central Prison in Raleigh, where the the tattooed arms of inmates extended from behind bars like tentacles as catcalls echoed down the bleak and narrow corridor. I almost peed my pants when I realized we were actually being taken on a tour of the gas chamber. These memories were among the thoughts of this law-abiding citizen after I heard these words over the phone: “Mr. Bailey, we need you to come by our office right now.”

There was no doubt in my or Anne’s mind that I had broken the law and might hear the click of handcuffs within the hour. “Go ahead, face the music,” Anne told me.

I never meant to pay for the four tires with “funny money.” Now, the clerk, who wouldn’t take my credit card number over the phone, was saying, “We need to take care of this right now — here.”

It all began as a simple prank. My hiking buddy, Randall, gave me a stack of crisp faux $100 bills his wife bought from Amazon. They looked like the genuine article, real enough that I fooled several friends with them, handing over 10 and saying, “Here’s the thousand dollars I owe you for that bet we made.” Bets are often something we make on the trail when we have a strong difference of opinion and a weak internet signal. For instance, after one hike, I sang Johnny Nash’s famous line, “I can see clearly now the rain is gone” instead of “I can see clearly now Lorraine is gone,” which is what Randall thought it was. “I bet you a bottle of bourbon” indicates that it’s a real challenge, payable without fail on the next hike. “I bet you $1,000” or $500 is a sure sign that the bettor is a bit unsure of his memory, but is relatively certain the other person is dead wrong. All of this to explain how an envelope of five $100 bills, admittedly marked in small letters “For Stage Use Only,” ended up buried under the piles of paper that wind up on our kitchen counter. 

Anne had unearthed the funny money and unwittingly put it in the same drawer where we keep spare cash. The next day when I went to buy four new tires, I took the five bills with me since the tire shop charged a premium for using credit cards.

I paid with what I honestly-to-goodness thought was cash, rolling away on brand-new rubber. But now, as I pulled back into the lot on as-good-as-stolen tires, my clammy palms turning the wheel into a space, I scanned the parking lot for a police cruiser. Or worse, a Secret Service agent.

The clerk from yesterday had the phone cradled between his shoulder and ear as he was typing something into his computer, but gave me a knowing nod. Sweat rolled down my back as he finished the call and turned to me with a big smile. I began my long explanation of why I had given him “counterfeit” money but he waved my explanation off as as I peeled off four real bills.

“Look, I’m really sorry. I bet the mechanics really gave you a hard time.” Again, he brushed off what had been my third apology.

“Look, it’s no big deal,” he said.

Easy for him to say.   OH

Obviously Scots Irish with a name like Bailey, David does, in fact, buy tires costing less than one hundred dollars each.

Sazerac November 2026

Sazerac

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Sazerac November 2026

INDIE SCENE

Since its founding, the University of North Carolina School of the Arts has been a launching pad for remarkable creative talent including seven-time Primetime Emmy-nominated cinematographer Chris Ellison. Ellison’s career in film was hardly a straight line. It had a few detours, a few odd jobs, then, eventually, a whole lot of jungle. Born and raised in North Carolina, Ellison moved from Raleigh to Rocky Mount after graduating from Rocky Mount Senior High School, eventually landing in Winston-Salem in 2006. His reason for moving? Music. Ellison was playing in a band, Sunset Greets the Moon, and soon found himself immersed in Winston-Salem’s arts scene. Apparently, one creative pursuit was not enough.

A few years after settling in Winston-Salem, Ellison toyed with graphic design. “I never really decided to do that. It was something that just happened to me,” he says. Eventually, all those creative side quests pointed him toward filmmaking. In 2015, Ellison enrolled at UNCSA, earning a dual degree in cinematography and creative producing. It was a major change, but one that arrived at exactly the right time. “I was at a point where I wanted to make some changes about my future and it all just lined up.”

After graduating, Ellison did what countless aspiring filmmakers have done before him: He headed west. “I packed up my station wagon and drove to Los Angeles,” he says — with his heading into the setting sun, a fitting and dramatic cinematic gesture. From there, Ellison worked his way up from assistant camera operator on sets to cinematographer on some of television’s most recognizable adventure programs, including The Amazing Race and Survivor. His work has earned multiple Primetime Emmy nominations, including two for outstanding cinematography for a reality program. He has also survived 12 seasons of Survivor, which means he has arguably spent enough time in the jungle to qualify as local wildlife. “I never really traveled much growing up, so this side of the industry has opened up another world that I never really got to see,” Ellison says. His filmmaking career expands beyond television screens. He directed and shot his own short film, Peach Bottom, proving that even after working on massive productions, there is still something satisfying about making personal projects. “It was a fun little exercise to just make something for myself,” he says.

From band practice in Winston-Salem to Emmy-nominated cinematography, Ellison’s story is a reminder that creative careers do not always follow a map. Sometimes, you just go in different directions and see where the road takes you.

 — Joi Floyd

JOI DE VIVRE

Chef Joi-yardee: Dad is a man of many hats: a barber, Bigfoot conspiracy theorist and father to amazing children (myself included, obviously). But it’s his chef’s hat that stands proudest. Known for his delicious recipes, he honed his skills through family recipes and good old-fashioned trial and error. I know what you’re thinking: Joi, you must be an amazing cook as well. Well, I’d be a liar if I let you believe that — and my mother taught me better than to fib. I have been known to burn hot dogs, for goodness’ sake — you can’t be great at everything. That isn’t to say my dad didn’t try to teach me the brass tacks of cooking. He did, but it must have gone in one ear and out the other because, unfortunately, I retained very little of that information. I remember the many hours I would spend in the kitchen with my dad, whipping up dinner while my siblings sat at the kitchen table, praying for an edible meal. I even went as far as saying I wanted to be a chef in my younger years — let’s just say that dream is on the back burner, never to be revived. At the beginning of 2026, one of my New Year’s resolutions was to finally put my apartment kitchen to work. So, unfortunately for my roommates, I stuck to my goal this year. Starting from the bottom with different ramen recipes, I proudly report that I am able to make a full-blown spaghetti-and-garlic-bread dinner — a win in my cookbook. I’m far from the best, but I’m getting better, dish by dish. Could I be the next Gordon Ramsay? The haters, and maybe my roommates, will say no, but my stomach is satisfied. Though I’ve made good progress so far, I think I’ll  refrain from troubling my family with any more experimental recipes — at least for this year. So as Thanksgiving marches in and the rest of the family prepares the feast, I’ll be sure to take my table-setting duty very seriously.

— Joi Floyd

ART TO HEART

“We as humans heal better when we’re in sacred spaces,” says Felicia Reed, a recognized fiber artist who travels the globe with a mission to bring people together through art and shared experiences. For Reed, art has the power to do more than simply inspire — it can help us heal and understand one another. She believes creative expression can create space for connection, conversation and transformation.

Her latest exhibition, PEACE, aims to create a sanctuary for community and unity. Through a thoughtfully curated collection of her own pieces plus juried artwork, Reed hopes to amplify a diverse range of voices while creating a sense of belonging for artists ranging from emerging to established. “I try to create exhibits that remove barriers, break glass ceilings and provide a place where everyone can be included and recognized,” Reed says.

“Art mediums can bring people together,” she says, “where biases can be removed, expressions can be provided, dialogue can be opened, inspiration can be received and understanding can come visually.” Through this kind of artistic transformation, Reed hopes to move humanity one step closer to unity, gathering people together in the sacred space she’s created with PEACE. Art invites us to pause, see the world through another person’s eyes, and discover something new in the process. As French artist Edgar Degas famously said, “Art is not what you see but what you make others see.”

Reed’s PEACE exhibit will be on view in the Central Gallery of Revolution Mill through Jan. 2, 2027. Come expecting meaningful dialogue and leave with a renewed appreciation for the power of art. Info: eventbrite.com/e/peace-art-exhibit-opening-reception-and-networking-tickets-1992674068781.

UNSOLICITED ADVICE

Change is inevitable, everyone and everything must evolve — except when it comes to Thanksgiving favorites. Altering the mashed potatoes or watergate salad is fine, but when it comes to the classics, let’s refrain from any modifications. There is no greater horror for us than sitting down to a plate of creamed-spinach casserole — don’t mess with Great-Grandma’s classic green bean casserole. But gone are the days where turkey shines brightest. Side dishes and desserts are the real stars, so we need to make sure they are decadent and exact each time. We’ve arranged a list of Thanksgiving eats that will definitely cause some family discourse if you happen to meddle with its secret formula.

You can experiment with a lot of different foods, but macaroni and cheese ain’t one of them. Health-conscious troopers look forward to reveling in its richness just this once, so, no, Aunt Sally, we don’t want to try your new veggie-style, dairy-free, gluten-free mac and cheese. Gooey and creamy is the only way to whip it up.

Chopped, glazed then baked, candied yams are an underrated sweet staple to our annual savory feast. There’s nothing like the sugary, sticky syrup from the yams inching its way into the aforementioned macaroni piled on your plate. We couldn’t imagine a feast without them.

A pumpkin pie slice and everything nice is a great way to end the seemingly endless feast. Passed down from generation to generation, it’s a dish not to be tampered with — Great-Great-Great-Grandmother says so.

P.S. Take all of this advice lightly. We just want you to make the best of this day full of gratitude and rejoicing without unnecessary food drama. As always, remember, Thanksgiving isn’t about what you take but about what you give. Spending time with friends and family? That’s the real main dish.

Window on the Past

Photograph Courtesy of Irving Park Art & Frame

Curated by Phillip Humphrey Musselwhite, this shadowbox is more than a collection of keepsakes — it’s a life story, carefully laid out and framed by Irving Park Art & Frame. Honoring his late father, James Earl Musselwhite, the piece brings together handwritten letters, military medals, rank patches and memorabilia from his formative years during World War II. Each artifact offers a glimpse into the man behind the memories, preserving not only where he served, but the lasting impression he left on the people around him.

Simple Life

Simple Life

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Something Old, Something to Renew

Third Time Was the Charm

By Jim Dodson

Illustration by Gerry O’Neill

Not long ago, with family and close friends in attendance, my wife, Wendy, and I celebrated 25 years of marriage by renewing our wedding vows in our garden.

Our original wedding took place in late June 2001, but we decided a day this past September was more appropriate for renewing our vows because ours was an autumn romance that led to a summer wedding three years later. As I noted back in July, the way we met and fell in love was something out of a madcap romantic comedy.

Briefly, it involved three blind dates during a major October fundraiser weekend where I was the featured speaker, two of which were comic dating disasters followed by a third that transformed my life in the most unexpected and wonderful way.

Her name was Wendy Anne Buynak, a gifted baker and beautiful mother of two small boys who was in the process of divorcing her husband. After a quiet afternoon first date to a local park, we decided to take our budding romance out of town and motored along New York’s beautiful Cayuga Lake on a beautiful November morning and lunched at a winery, where we met a minibus full of five young, married couples who invited us to join them on a tour of the Finger Lakes wine country.

On a lark, trailing their bus, we joined them for three wineries in a row. At each stop, the couples toasted us and demanded to know more about our romance and my intentions. 

“I have a great idea! You guys should get married today,” one of the young wives blurted out, prompting cheers from her tipsy companions. “We’ll even find a minister!”

We politely demurred, pointing out that we had a dinner reservation at a legendary  restaurant in Ithaca, but thanked them and wished them well. Also, a safe journey home.

On the way to the restaurant, we passed an old-fashioned roadhouse called Glenwood Pines, set charmingly in the woods above the lake, and decided to stop for a cold longneck beer. We had such fun talking to the owners and playing shuffleboard bowling that we decided to skip the restaurant in favor of a cozy Glenwood Pines supper for two. At one point, Wendy wiped away a tear and I asked her if all was well. “I’ve never felt so happy,” she simply replied.

A full harvest moon was shining and the owners told us about a great spot by the lake in Ithaca where they courted once upon a time. An hour or so later, we were doing what couples in love do by a beautiful lake under a full moon when a cop tapped gently on our steamed-up window with a flashlight.

“Are you OK, ma’am?” he politely asked Wendy.

“I’m fine, officer,” she replied. “We’re just talking about our children and what a lovely November day it’s been.”

“She’s in danger of being proposed to very soon,” I chipped in.

“In that case,” he said with a smile, “you folks have a nice evening — and great life together.”

A few weeks later, we met once again at a historic inn in Williamstown, Massachusetts, for our official third date. I read Wendy a poem I’d written inspired by our wonderful day in wine country.

•

Three years later, on what would have been my parents’ 58th wedding anniversary, we got married on a rainy June afternoon in Maine, only Wendy’s parents, my widowed mom and two dear friends from Georgia in attendance, Susie and Rick Berta. Susie, who sang with a famous Atlanta chorale, did a beautiful version of John Lennon’s  “Grow Old with Me,” with its perfect lyric: Grow old along with me. The best is yet to be.

We postponed our reception until early September 2001 — a lobster roast under the stars with an Irish fiddle band for 100 friends and family who were coming from everywhere.

I was buying flowers for the party that clear, blue Tuesday morning, however, when the World Trade Center’s towers fell and America stood still in grief and disbelief. Since air travel was cancelled nationwide, we cancelled our lobster roast. Besides, the American Red Cross had reserved a thousand lobsters for a major fundraiser in New York. All the available local lobsters were spoken for.

Two days later, however, something wonderful happened. Susie and Rick phoned to say they planned to drive all the way to Maine, wanting just to be with us at such a sad time for America. Their call opened a cosmic floodgate. The phone never stopped ringing with friends far and wide who wanted to do the same, including the lobster guy, who called to say the Red Cross fundraiser was postponed and he had several hundred lobsters on his hands that were already paid for. We could get them for a dollar apiece.

The lobster bake was suddenly back on.

Locals in town who’d planned to go away for the week also called to ask if they might come and bring friends and children. Naturally, we said yes.

Instead of 100 guests, we had almost 200, including kids and dogs. Wendy’s amazing wedding cake vanished before I could even get a taste. Because none of our guests except Rick and Susie had been at our wedding, we did a brief repeat of our wedding vows plus a blessing  for the victims and families of 9/11. The music, the dancing and the tears went on until midnight.

•

This past September, as our grown children, new granddaughter, and a dozen or so close friends gathered in our front garden on a balmy evening, I marveled how quickly time had passed. Susie was there despite having suddenly lost Rick last January after 46 years of a extraordinary marriage. When I told her she wouldn’t have to sing “Grow Old with Me,” she laughed and said, “I’m not sure I could!” Her simple presence was the perfect gift.

I surprised my bride of Irish heritage with a small, gold necklace featuring the Celtic symbol of eternity, and she surprised me by appearing in a gorgeous new wedding dress — an upgrade from the one that was ruined in the rain at our first wedding ceremony.

Before Rev. Ginny Inman conducted her short but beautiful renewal of our vows, I told our gathered friends about our first three dates 26 years ago and read the poem I proposed with. They seemed to dig it.

Maybe the third time really is the charm. This time, I finally got to taste Wendy’s marvelous wedding cake.  OH

Jim Dodson is founding editor of O.Henry.

Tea Leaf Astrologer

Tea Leaf Astrologer

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Scorpio

(October 23 – November 21)

Know what’s sweeter than overseeing karmic justice? Redirecting that soul-piercing energy back to your own life. The first half of the month will bring opportunities for some tending and mending, especially when it comes to financial dealings and joint ventures (read: no bridge-burning required). And when Mercury and Venus station direct on Nov. 13, try letting things feel easy for a while.
You deserve the break, darling. 

Tea leaf  “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Drink more water.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Run your own race, darling.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

You’ll laugh about it later.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Wear thicker socks.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

Explore lumbar support.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Two words: candlelit dinner.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Honesty is a grace.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Try adjusting your lens.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Can you let it be simple?

Virgo (August 23 – September 22) 

There’s nothing to prove.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

You can’t fix what’s not broken.  OH

Zora Stellanova lives in the N.C. mountains with her wolfdogs, Venus and Lilith. Although she prefers divining with loose-leaf pu-erh, she recommends a mugwort and passionflower blend for those seeking wisdom and clarity from dreams.

Alamanc November 2026

Alamanc November 2026

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Alamanc November 2026

By Ashley Walshe

November says come to the table, come hungry, come as you are.

The collards are slow cooking with onion. Aromatics sizzle on the stovetop. Outside, chickadees and titmice chatter in the underbrush.

Come as you are.

Through the window, a swirl of crimson leaves takes flight, stripping the maple of its autumn color. You study the tree’s thin, ascending branches; its nakedness; its graceful surrender. Your face and shoulders soften.

Who are we beneath the surface, beneath the armor, beneath our own resistance?

The cornbread is ready. Company arrives with casserole and pie. The children arrive as invited, sneaking cookies from the countertop before bounding back outside.

Hands keep busy. Place settings and chairs are rearranged. An old guitar is being tuned on the front porch.

The kitchen is a whir of movement and chatter. Through the window, the children shuffle leaves into crimson landing pads. A wren blasts his brassy song through the neighboring forest.

At last, let us gather at the table with our joys and our sorrows. The heaviness of our losses. The grace of our endless blessings.

Look around. Take in the beauty of these hands — all they have built and held and tended; all they have released.

Study these eyes, the laugh and worry lines, the wisdom and the innocence.

Are we not just like the trees, shaped, too, by wind and sun? Surrendering to life’s seasons in our own perfect timing? 

May we be gentle with each other. May we seek the simple wisdom of the earth and her children. May we nourish ourselves completely.

November Scavenger Hunt

A buck moth on a bright autumn day.

Vagrant rufous hummingbird.

Red, orange, yellow and burgundy leaves.

Snapdragons.

A bark-stripped tree from a white-tailed buck.

White-throated sparrows.

Chimney smoke.

Flowering witch hazel.

Wood ducks on the water.

It was one of those early November mornings that are as beautiful as any in spring. There was gold everywhere, drifts of it on the elm tree, flakes of gold under our feet, gold dust on the hedges, liquid gold in the refracted falling light.

— Elizabeth Goudge, The Dean’s Watch

Songs of Thanks

The trees offer their leaves back to the earth that holds them.

Can you hear the soil humming songs of thanks?

And what of the caterpillars? Luna moths spin their silk cocoons among leaf litter, where woolly bears lie frozen until the return of spring.

Firefly larvae tuck themselves beneath the thick, damp duff.

Frogs, toads, turtles, snakes and salamanders nestle beneath its safety, too.

Spring herself will give thanks for this humble offering; this blanket of darkness; this quiet, maternal embrace.

You’re welcome, the trees sing back. And thank you.  OH

Life’s Funny

Life's Funny

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Points of Light

Cooper’s Christmas Balls lives on with Backpack Beginnings

By Maria Johnson

“I’m gonna have arthritis later in life because of this,” says a grinning 18-year-old Cooper Dunning as he snips and twists a length of wire mesh into an orb that soon will be a lighted Christmas ball glowing in a tree.

“I bet you could do that without looking,” I say, half-joshing.

Sitting at his family’s kitchen table, Cooper picks up the challenge, looks away from his hands and continues wire-rasslin’ without missing a beat, showing off the muscle memory that underpinned the success of his homespun business, Cooper’s Christmas Balls.

The enterprise, which Cooper started when he was only 11, took off, thanks largely to an annual spectacle one neighborhood over from Cooper’s Lindley Park home: a galaxy of glowing balls suspended in the trees over Sunset Hills at Christmastime.

Over seven years, Cooper made and sold 5,500 light-wrapped balls at about $20 a pop. He gave 15% of his profit to local charities.

You do the win-win math.

Here’s where the story gets twistier than a piece of wire mesh in Cooper’s well-worn hands.

Back in August, Cooper went off to college to study — what else? — business.

Yay.

But physically, emotionally and practically, he was done with the balls.

Wah.

But the making of Christmas balls will continue as a workforce development program of another homegrown success story, BackPack Beginnings.

Yay.

“We hope we do it justice,” says BackPack Beginnings founder Parker White. “If things go well this year, we’re hoping to make it way bigger next year.”

The hand-off happened in an unforeseen way.

Last year, Parker walked by Cooper’s ball-laden table at Merry Merry Market, an annual holiday fair at Revolution Mill.

Parker’s daughter, Avery, and Cooper are good friends, and Parker knew the ball-making operation had been a hit.

She asked Cooper what would happen to his venture when he went to college. He said he planned to let it go.

Parker posed a hypothetical: What if BackPack Beginnings took over the business and used it for workforce development?

“I love a ‘what-if,’” says Cooper. “It was an aha moment for both of us.”

Cooper went home and told his mom, Sarah.

“She said, ‘Whatever you say, Cooper,’ as she does for a lot of things,” he recalls. “She’s supportive but hands-off, which is the best kind of supportive in my opinion.”

Sarah knew all about Cooper’s entrepreneurial zeal.

She had watched him, at age 6, dress up as the Mayor of Munchkinland and go door-to-door to raise money for the Community Theatre of Greensboro. The top fund-raisers would get to be flying monkeys in that year’s production of The Wizard of Oz.

“He was motivated by winning,” says Sarah.

Cooper raised $1,200, and his father, Matt, hoisted him aloft as a flying monkey suspended by cables and wires. A year later, Cooper opened a booth at The Corner Farmers Market, a Saturday-morning bazaar then located at the corner of Elam and Walker avenues.

Cooper’s homemade wares included dog treats, chew toys and bow-ties for the well-dressed canine. He also hawked lemonade and hand-crafted coasters that possessed, as he puts it, “very little aesthetic appeal.”

Four years later, a customer asked if he could make Christmas balls like the ones that glowed in the trees around Sunset Hills every year.

Cooper went home, found some wire in the family’s garage, and got to work. He made 100 balls that year and sold all of them.

Each year for the next six years, he capped production at 1,000 balls — except for last year, when he made a record 1,100 — so he would have time for student council, swimming, junior marshals and singing in Grimsley’s celebrated choral group, the Madrigals.

He refined his methods over time.

Each year, he started ball production in July, after swimming season ended. Using a 50-foot roll of wire, he made exactly 42 forms while sitting on the floor of his family’s living room, streaming TV and movie serials.

He stuffed the family’s basement, shed and attic with the bare spheres.

Because he used dog wire — a heavier gauge than chicken wire — Cooper’s balls stood up to storage, unlike the handiwork of a certain columnist, who once made lighted Christmas balls from chicken wire, just as she had seen demonstrated on a TV morning show.

After a couple of seasons in the attic, the deformed balls looked like the electrified tears of some very sad trees in her front yard, and she threw them away in a fit of un-elf-like disgust.

But she digresses.

By the end of September, Cooper was wrapping the balls with strings of 100-count incandescent mini-lights. LED lights were more expensive and gave off a cooler light than Cooper wanted.

“Bad for my brand,” he says flatly.

Cooper made each of the balls himself. Once, Matt tried to help him, but he did not meet Cooper’s quality-control standards.

Matt made up for it, however, by building a cart that Cooper hitched to his bike, loaded with balls and pulled to The Corner Farmers Market.

Later, after the market relocated to the corner of West Market Street and Kensington Road, Matt helped Cooper build a deluxe ball stall on a trailer that Cooper towed behind a car.

Cooper handed a healthy slice of his market profits to Green for Greens, a Corner Farmers Market initiative that matches SNAP benefits — federally-funded food-buying credits — up to $50.

During last fall’s government shut-down, the bonus helped many families stretch their food dollars.

“It’s a wonderful program that was sorely needed,” says Cooper.

He feels the same way about BackPack Beginnings, which Parker started in 2010, sending backpacks full of nonperishable food home to a few dozen needy students each weekend.

Since then, the nonprofit has expanded to serve more than 30,000 local families with a diaper bank; a family market; comfort backpacks stuffed with toiletries, books and toys for children living through trauma; and a life-coaching service called Beyond the Basics.

The Christmas balls will be a pilot program under that umbrella. Participants will be trained in the Cooper Way of ball construction, hired by BackPack Beginnings as seasonal workers, and paid minimum wage plus a per-ball premium.

Most of the trainees will be women who find it difficult to work in traditional jobs because of health, childcare or transportation issues.

Cooper will be standing by in case advice is needed from afar.

“I’m gonna be a second-dimensional figure now,” he says. “I’m letting my baby go.”

He isn’t the only one.

His parents — and the family of his friend Avery — know the feeling. Both youngsters have shipped out to UNC Chapel Hill to study business.

Their families, meanwhile, are adjusting to life without the lights that graced their homes for 18 years. It’s a transition that sparks a flurry of emotions: a twinge of loneliness, a touch of worry and a tide of pride at seeing your child shine.

“Trust is a big thing,” says Cooper, reflecting on the handoff of his creation, which he nurtured for so long. “It’s giving me a little peace knowing that it’ll continue to grow and become something bigger than myself.”

And all of the parents said, “Amen.”  OH

Maria Johnson is a contributing editor of O.Henry. Email her at ohenrymaria@gmail.com.

Chaos Theory

Chaos Theory

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Homeward Bound

My grandfather’s journey

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“It might be a little too out there for you,” says my friend, Alex.

“Too out there?” I ask my fellow Leos, who have gathered together to harness the energy of the Fire Horse year. She’s preaching to the choir.

“OK. I highly recommend the book Journey of Souls,” she adds. The book, she tells us, was written by Michael Newton, who holds a doctorate in counseling psychology and is a certified master hypnotherapist. It is unabashedly abounding with “case studies of life between lives.” Using hypnosis, Newton gained insight from subjects who recalled their previous deaths. Yeah, it is way out there. But isn’t it comforting to think that there’s more awaiting us after our time on Earth — in this body — ends?

I immediately download the Audible and get to listening. And I reflect back on all of the people I’ve loved deeply and lost in my life. My best friend, Melissa, died when we were just 7 years old from leukemia. For a while after, I wrote letters to her and left them face up on my bed. “So that she can read them in heaven,” I told my mom.

•

Less than two years later, my father’s father, Grampa, succumbed to his own battle with cancer. He was just 59 years old, 11 years older than I am and 11 years younger than my parents are right now. As he lay in his hospital bed toward the end, he told my grandmother, Nana, “It’s OK, he said I could go home now.” Perplexed, she told him the doctor had said no such thing.

Their home was a staple of my childhood. The year I turned 7 was the year we moved to Wilbraham, Massachusetts, the same town my parents grew up in and where I was lucky to cross paths with Melissa. Living just 5 or so minutes away from us, Grampa dropped in often, “helping” my parents with house projects — aka, shooting the crap and munching on donuts while Mom and Dad drilled, sanded and painted.

We, too, frequented their house — a mustard-yellow split level. To this day, I adore daffodils because they remind me of the hundreds that bloomed every spring in their backyard. Nana always handed me her scissors and let me go to town on cutting them, filling vases all over her house.

Their small family room featured rust-colored shag carpeting, a coordinating floral sofa and a portrait of “Paws,” the gray polydactyl cat my dad had growing up. But the pièce de résistance was Grampa’s leather recliner. It sat in the corner, angled for prime TV viewing. My older brother, Dana, and I used to go to the closet, pull out Grampa’s plaid driving caps and place them on our heads. Then we’d occupy his Barcalounger, lay way back and relax, pretending we were him.

As his illness progressed, he spent more and more time in that chair until, one day, it was empty. I can still hear his voice calling me his “little chicken” and I can picture his face, his big, hooded blue eyes and the gap in his front teeth. (His mom was British, after all.)

After he died in the fall of my fourth-grade year, he visited me in a dream. We were in his driveway, selling some of his things in a yard sale. He told me it was OK, that he was OK, and that I’d see him again one day.

As I get deeper into Journey of Souls, I learn that Earth, according to Newton’s research, is a place those of us who have gone to the other side can revisit, that we have soul groups that we can reconnect with. But on the other side is where home actually lies — not here on Earth.

I think about my grandfather and wonder if it’s true. Will I see him again one day? I honestly don’t know and I will wait as long as I can to find out. But I would like to think that he did indeed make it home, just like he said he would.  OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.